


What a Million Girls Would Kill For

by Woldy



Category: The Devil Wears Prada
Genre: Coming Out, Community: lgbtfest, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, POV Female Character, Queer Themes, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This – the Prada skirts and Jimmy Choos – was what a lesbian should look like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Million Girls Would Kill For

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LGBTfest using the prompt: "Devil Wears Prada, Emily, the cliché is that lesbians are a fashion disaster so Emily decides the cliche has to go". Emily's opinions in this fic do not reflect my own. Many thanks to [](http://skeeter451.livejournal.com/profile)[**skeeter451**](http://skeeter451.livejournal.com/) for doing a great job as beta.
> 
> Warning for minor issues around body image &amp; diet.

Emily was eight the first time she heard the word 'lesbian', sitting on the sofa at her cousin's house and watching a video of _Sleeping Beauty_. Emily knew the story already – she could read, after all – but her cousin Helen was only five and stared raptly at the dancing figures.

Emily took another handful of popcorn and glanced back at the television. The story might be boring, she decided, but at least there were nice clothes. The heroine wore a pink dress with a big swishy skirt, the kind of thing Emily's mum always refused to buy her. When she grew up, Emily resolved, she would have all the dresses she wanted.

"Look, it's the Prince!" said Helen, pointing at a tall man who had inserted himself implausibly into the dancing.

Emily assessed him critically. "His head's a funny shape," she said. "Aurora should find a Princess instead, and they can live in the castle and play with pretty dresses whenever they want."

Behind her, Emily's uncle snorted.

"You're going to be a virgin or a lesbian are you, Emily?"

Emily didn't know what either of those words meant, but she didn't like her uncle very much and definitely disliked jokes at her expense, so wasn't going to admit weakness.

Chin held high, she turned slowly and gave him her frostiest look. "No," Emily said, "I'm going to be a fashion designer."

Her uncle burst into laughter and Emily turned, stung, back to the television.

_I'll show you,_ she thought, giving the table a vicious kick and spilling popcorn all over the floor. _I'm going to be even more beautiful than a princess, and I won't have to talk to people like you at all._

The next time Emily heard that word, she was ten and watching tennis while her mother made supper.

Emily wasn't any good at tennis, but she understood the game enough to know when someone else was playing well. On the screen in front of her, a pretty girl in an A-line skirt was being comprehensively beaten by a woman with short hair and ugly white shorts.

To Emily's discerning eye, neither outfit was a success. She knew that the rules at Wimbledon meant everyone had to wear white, which was a bad start, but that skirt would look much nicer with a strong shoulder. Throw in some shoulder pads, a few accessories, and the pretty girl would have an outfit that Emily might be seen dead in. The shorts, though, were _an absolute disaster._

The woman in the shorts slammed the ball over the net, and there was a storm of applause.

"Who's winning?" Emily's mother called from the kitchen.

"Ugly shorts," Emily shouted back.

A moment later, her mother appeared in the doorway. "Who on earth is ugly shorts?"

"That woman," Emily said, pointing, "I can't say her name. If everybody else is prepared to at least make an effort, I don't know why she has to wear the ugliest shorts in the universe."

"You mean Martina," Emily's mother said, sounding uncomfortable. "Well, she's a bit different."

"Different how?" Emily asked, fixing her mother with the cool stare she was learning to deploy against adults.

Her mother hesitated.

"You always say that you want me to learn things," Emily said pointedly, "but I don't know how I can be expected to since you won't tell me –"

"She's a lesbian," her mother said curtly, retreating in the direction of the kitchen. "They don't dress like everybody else."

Emily looked from her mother to the woman in the shorts on the television, and had a vague memory of her uncle's dismissive comment over _Sleeping Beauty_. She went to fetch a dictionary.

Her school dictionary didn't contain the word 'lesbian', but Emily found it in the big dictionary in her father's office: _– Noun. An inhabitant of Lesbos. A female homosexual_.

Emily continued reading to the next entry for 'Lesbos', which said: _– Noun. A Greek island in the Aegean._ She stared at the words for a moment, then closed the dictionary and replaced it on the shelf.

Well, unless it was a Greek island with a tradition of ugly shorts – which she doubted, because Emily knew that the Greeks wore draped robes – then being a lesbian was absolutely no excuse. Martina whatever-her-name-was would have to take responsibility for her own fashion crises.

When Emily got to secondary school she found that that people used the word lesbian a lot. Mostly it was applied to their gym teacher, who had cropped brown hair and spent her life wearing navy tracksuits. Since there was nothing to suggest that the woman was either a homosexual or from a Greek island, Emily decided that in this context 'lesbian' was just being used as an insult for someone who forced you to run around in the mud. Given that everyone used the word 'gay' – which she knew meant homosexual – as an all-purpose insult, this made some sense.

The first time anyone used the word in the dictionary sense was when Emily forgot her textbook after gym class, and walked in on two girls snogging in the changing room. Emily only recognised a handful of the older girls, the popular ones and the prefects, and the girl with her back against the locker was one of the former.

As the door clicked shut behind Emily, the girls jumped apart.

"We were just practising," the popular girl said quickly, her voice defensive but her pink cheeks betraying the lie. "I'm not a lesbian or anything."

Beside her, the other girl stared at the floor. Usually Emily was a bit intimated by the girls from the years above her, people old enough to drive or vote, but now they looked young and rather frightened.

Emily gave them a cool, assessing look, and then bent to retrieve her textbook from beneath the bench. As she did so, the popular girl – Amanda? – blurted out, "You're not going to tell anyone?"

"No," Emily said, straightening up and walking towards the door. "I'm not."

From that day onwards, Emily received a poisonous look every time she passed Amanda in the corridor. The incident taught her three lessons: that you could become somebody's enemy by doing them a favour; that nowhere in a school was private; and that being a lesbian was something you didn't admit in public.

Emily didn't kiss anyone herself until a few years later, while sharing an illicit cigarette in the car park after her evening ballet class. They were both sweaty and the kiss tasted of ash mixed with strawberry lip gloss, but there is nobody around to interrupt or betray her secret at school. She gave the girl a weak smile afterwards and kissed her three more times before the girl started walking to the bus stop with someone else after ballet and that was the end of the smoke breaks.

Before long it seemed that all Emily's classmates had boyfriends and were being invited to pubs and parties at the weekends. The boys were always badly-dressed and inarticulate – who imposed this uniform of jeans and t-shirts? – but the invitations provided a handy excuse for shopping trips.

For years Emily had been spending her monthly pocket money on a subscription to _Runway_ and whatever clothes she could afford. When her regular complaints that she had nothing to wear to a party got an extra few quid from her parents, Emily knew just what to do with it.

Her first trip to London was a revelation, and Emily navigated the city with an _A to Z_ and the _Runway _designer listings, scurrying to and fro until her feet were covered in blisters. She limped back home on the train, but the exclusive shopping bags in her hand proclaimed the day a triumph.

At the next party Emily wore her shoes from London, but nobody seemed to notice. The only things anyone paid attention to as far as Emily could tell was alcohol and their clumsy efforts to get off with the opposite sex.

Emily was trying to start a conversation about the recent winter collections when a sweaty arm landed on her shoulders and someone slurred "Heeeey" into her ear. She shoved the guy off, grabbed her bag and almost ran outside for a cigarette. Emily smoked one cigarette, then a second, and had just lit a third when somebody sat down on the wall beside her.

"Can I get a light?" asked a male voice, and Emily rolled her eyes.

"I'm not going to fuck you, so if that's what you want then stop trying."

The guy made an amused noise. "I'm gay, actually, so you don't need to worry about that."

Emily whipped round to look at him, her fag dangling in the air. She knew that gay people existed – obviously she knew, because half the fashion industry was gay and the only people she'd ever been attracted to were female – but she'd never heard anybody admit it before. Who was this man and what was he doing at this lousy party?

"Careful," the guy said, pushing the hand holding her cigarette further away. "If you sit there gawking like that you'll get ash on those Red or Dead shoes."

"Oh my god," Emily said shakily, and took a drag on her cigarette. "You recognised the – is that a Helmut Lang jacket?"

The guy slid a cigarette packet out of his pocket, removed one and leaned in to light it off Emily's fag.

"Yeah," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke and gave her a secretive, sideways smile. "I stole it from someone I fucked. That's the big advantage of being gay."

"Oh my god," Emily said again, her brain reeling. "I'll bear that in mind if I ever actually..." Silently she added, _sleep with a girl, which isn't likely given the state of my social life._

The guy gave her a considering look and Emily had a feeling he'd guessed exactly what she was thinking.

"If you're looking for girls whose wardrobe is worth stealing, then St Martins is your best bet. You'd think sleeping with models was the way to go, but models are just people who look much better with clothes on than clothes off."

Emily laughed inelegantly, midway through an inhalation, and the guy's smile broadened.

"I'm Daniel by the way."

"Emily," she said, "it's nice to meet you. Where have you been all my life?"

"Getting the fuck out of school and suburbia," Daniel replied, flicking his fag ash carefully away from her shoes and his jacket. "You're what, seventeen? Trust me, it gets _much_ better."

By the time Emily arrived at Central St Martins, Daniel was working for a tailor on Savile Row. He complained about the long hours and unimaginative work, but got them seats for three shows at London Fashion Week and Emily loved him for it.

"That's probably the closest I'll ever get to the runway," Daniel said afterwards, over their second gin and tonic. "I'll end up as a blind old hunchback making suits for corporate wankers."

"That's total bollocks. Alexander McQueen started as a pattern cutter."

"Before he went to St Martins, so make the most of it," Daniel told her, and tossed back the last of his drink.

"God, you sound like my mum," replied Emily, glaring, and he laughed.

Despite her protestations, Emily did make the most of it. She attended every show and preview she or Daniel could talk their way into, flirting and flashing some skin, and then dragged herself out of bed the next morning in time for lectures. She stayed up late sketching until her head ached, networked with promoters and designers' assistants, and spent most of her weekly food budget on booze and coffee.

"I love my studies. I love my studies," Emily repeated to herself like a mantra as she smeared concealer over the dark circles under her eyes, and then slicked on lipstick like war-paint before facing the world.

Emily slept with two models, both of whom were just as beautiful without their clothes – although, god, she was fat by comparison. Then she fell head over heels for a girl in the fashion grad program, who looked like Edie Sedgewick and spoke with a cut-crystal accent that sent shivers down Emily's spine.

Emily copied Tara's accent in front of the bathroom mirror and tried not to feel like a weird stalker when they ran into one another on campus. Eventually they went home together, scandalising strangers by kissing on the Tube, and Emily attended classes the next day in Tara's Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. Two months later Emily moved into Tara's flat, and their combined wardrobe was a thing of beauty far greater than the sum of its parts.

Tara had ten pieces in a show at the next year's Alternative Fashion Week, and Emily was so proud and excited she could barely think straight. It was chaos backstage after the show and the party would be even crazier, so Emily left Tara to the frenzy of air kisses and congratulations. She forced herself to attend the final class of the day and picked up a bottle of champagne – which Emily couldn't really afford, but she could bum fags for a few days – on her way home.

When Emily opened the door to the flat, she found Tara fucking a man twice her age. She stared at them for a moment, taking in the man's pasty thighs sprawled against her bed sheets, the way Tara's naked body rocked over him, and then stormed out.

Emily drank the champagne with Daniel, who didn't complain when she cried into his jacket, and dragged herself reluctantly home at midnight. Tara was still awake, wearing a silk dressing gown and smoking out of the window, and she met Emily's eyes without a trace of embarrassment.

"I heard you come in earlier. Sorry about that, I should have put a note on the door."

"What d'you mean a note – who was he? What the fuck were you doing?" Emily asked, hearing her shrill voice approach a screech.

"He works for Vivienne Westwood," Tara said, turning to blow smoke out the window and showing her perfect profile.

"So fucking what? You're my girlfriend! You shouldn't be –"

"Oh come on, Emily, don't be so naive. You know how many St Martins grads there are each year, and most of us aren't going to get the jobs we want. If I can save years of miserable, grinding work just by shagging somebody, then I'd be stupid not to do it."

Emily opened her mouth, and for the first time in her life found that she was at a loss for words.

"You don't need to be jealous, I didn't fancy him," Tara said, taking a final drag on the cigarette and then flicking it out the window. "It's just a professional thing."

"If you didn't fancy him you shouldn't have fucked him," Emily said icily, and strode past Tara to the wardrobe. She pulled out her suitcase and began tossing clothes into it.

"Emily, you're being ridiculous. Everyone does it! You can't be a lesbian in fashion, you'll never get on!"

"Just watch me," Emily snapped, grabbing Tara's Prada jacket and a Valentino cocktail dress.

"You're behaving like a child," Tara said coolly, and Emily heard the floorboards creak as she left the room. Emily took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and crammed as many clothes and shoes into the suitcase as she could.

She staggered down the stairs with the suitcase, took a cab to Daniel's flat, and spent several days on his sofa with a box of Kleenex and about a kilo of chocolate.

"It's so unfair!" Emily wailed, as Daniel got ready for work the next morning. "People expect gay men to be fashionable. I get the stereotypes about fucking folk singers, and sports, and – and ugly butch policewomen."

"Self pity isn't a flattering look on anyone," Daniel said, and then his voice softened. "Look, we all get stereotyped, even your slutty bisexual ex. You've just got to decide how to respond to them. Surely you're not going to give up Miu Miu over this?"

"I hate you," Emily said, sniffling into a tissue, and broke off another square of Dairy Milk.

"I know you do, but I'm still right," said Daniel, hugging her, and treacherously stole the remainder of the chocolate bar. "Living fabulously is the best revenge. Try not to destroy my flat before I get back."

On the fifth day Daniel confiscated all her sweets and chocolate while Emily was in the loo, plonked himself down on the sofa and said, "Aren't you going to college?"

"I can't, Daniel! What if I run into her? Or if I see _him_ at something –" Emily burst into hiccoughing tears again, and Daniel passed her the box of Kleenex.

"You know I love you, but you can't spend the rest of your life in my flat."

"I am not going back to my parents!"

"That's not what I meant," Daniel said, pulling a pile of magazines out of his bag. "You have a passport, don't you?"

Emily nodded, and blew her nose.

Daniel spread out the magazines and Emily saw the US editions of _Runway, Cosmopolitan, Elle,_ and _Scarlett_.

"Because if you need to get out of town and you want to stay in fashion," he said matter-of-factly, "the obvious place is New York."

She landed at JFK three days later. The excess baggage cost a fortune, but from the first moment Emily saw the Manhattan skyline she knew it was worth it.

Emily moved into a tiny apartment with someone Daniel knew, got a job at Bergdorf Goodman and sent her CV to every contact and agency she could think of. She spend three months sighing over clothes that she couldn't possibly afford, assuring fat women that spending enough money made them look thinner, and could barely pay her rent after being seduced by a pair of blue Balenciaga shoes.

When she got the message about an interview with _Scarlett_ magazine, Emily almost cried with relief. She called Daniel in the middle of the night and it took them two hours to decide what she should wear.

In the event, the clothes weren't much of a help because Emily was escorted to the desk of a _Scarlett_ editor whose first words were, "Thank god you're normal. The last candidate looked like a lesbian."

"I am a lesbian," Emily said sharply. "Is that a problem?"

There was a heartbeat of horrible silence.

"Excuse me," the woman said, swivelling on her chair, and left the room.

Emily had a brief, painfully awkward interview with someone else, and left with the knowledge that they would have reported her announcement to the agency. She spent the return journey on the subway terrified that she'd be blacklisted all over town and smoked sixteen packs of cigarettes that week. Then she got the call from _Runway_.

Taking the elevator up to the offices of Elias-Clarke was the most nerve-wracking minute of Emily's life. She checked her reflection for the thousandth time, took a deep breath and told herself, _Keep calm. A million girls would kill for this job. You can't afford to blow it._

When she walked into Miranda Priestly's office, Emily was reminded of Martina whatever-her-name-was from all those years ago. The composure and fierce competitiveness were the same and Miranda's hair was, while short, immaculately cut and coloured. Forget the stereotypes and ugly shorts, because this – the Prada skirts and Jimmy Choos – was what a lesbian should look like.

"I hope you were listening," Miranda snapped, and Emily's brain jolted to attention.

"Yes Miranda," she said, repeating the list of instructions in her head. "I'll do it immediately."

Emily took her place at the desk of Miranda Priestly's second assistant and never looked back.


End file.
